Moonlight
by ephemereal
Summary: Sometimes it just hurts, knowing that it can't last. Mimi's story.
1. The Beginning

Author's Note: This is a rewrite/combination of Jagged Edges and Moonlight, two fics that I started last fall and ended up dropping. Moonlight is based on the old Chbosky screenplay. If you haven't read it, all you really need to know is that Mimi goes to the hospital at the end of it instead of staying at the loft. If you notice differences between this and the musical/movie, that's why. I'm not sure how far this is going to go, so let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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The Beginning

It is barely a week after New Year's and already the world is made of graying sludge. Crystalline tree branches are sagging, crying a silent lament for the passing of Christmas cheer. The wheels of the car squelch in the muddied snow as Mark pulls the car alongside the curb. He clears his throat and glances sheepishly at Mimi over the rims of his glasses. "I-um…I have to get Maureen's car back to her and be back at work in half an hour. Will you be okay?"

She nods and climbs out of the car, slinging Roger's ratty old duffel over one shoulder and shivering a little in the cold. The fresh air feels good, especially after days of hospital staleness. The stairs creak as she starts the long way up, and for a moment she is thrown by the likeness of the hallway to a jail—has she really lived here for three years and never noticed the stench before? She pauses for a moment, shifts the bag with an unaccustomed awkwardness, then knocks on the heavy metal door to the loft. The sound echoes through the hallway for a good thirty seconds before dying down to a low rumble like far off mountain thunder. Nothing happens. Mimi sighs, digs through the bag with her free hand, and pulls out a very worn key.

The loft is silent and dark, and she pauses for a moment, listening. At first there is nothing, just weak snow-day light coming in through the filter of grimy windows. Then there is the sound of bed springs creaking, and she realizes that the shower curtain which serves as Roger's bedroom door is drawn. So he must be here. Asleep, or otherwise distracted sufficiently to have missed the noise of the door opening. Biting her lip, Mimi makes her way toward the grimy piece of orange plastic that marks her target.

Roger is lying on the bed asleep, but fitfully. The covers are strewn all across the floor and his long eyelashes are matted with drying tears. His red guitar is lying out of its case on a chair next to the bed and there is a large mound of crumpled paper on the floor around the trashcan. Mimi walks cat-like and silent over to the side of the bed then stops, afraid to upset him worse. But then the reckless part wins out and she touches him lightly. A hand on his shoulder is all it takes.

Roger gasps and sits bolt upright, and for a moment looks like he's going to lash out. But then his eyes focus again and he relaxes a little, though his shoulders are still heaving. Mimi suddenly notices a bottle of sleeping pills on the bedside table. The lid is off. It's empty.

"Roger—God, talk to me." Her voice rings painfully in the quiet of the empty loft. She has a feeling that she is intruding on something of the utmost privacy. It does nothing to quell the sudden burst of acidic anger. She snatches up the pill bottle and waves it at him accusingly. "Are you all right?"

He doesn't answer, just looks back and forth between her and the pill bottle, stricken.

"Roger," she repeats, louder this time. "Please, please tell me you didn't try to—"

Roger shakes his head. Starts to cry again. Mimi sits beside him on the bed, tries to touch him but he flinches away.

"I-I did," he manages at last, "but I…I took them to fast and I…God, I always fuck everything up."

For a moment she just stares at him, learning to breathe again. Then a funny thing happens. It is as if a breath of spring has crept into the loft, and Mimi feels a smile tugging at her lips.

"What?" asks Roger, looking confused but a little calmer.

"I'm glad," she mutters at last, stifling a fit of nervous giggles.

Roger raises an eyebrow, still not understanding.

"I'm glad you're a fuck-up," says Mimi, laughing even harder at the absurdity of her own statement. "Mind you, just this once."

Roger manages a weak smile at that, the life returning to his blue eyes. "So…" he says after a moment.

Mimi breaks into a fresh fit of giggles at that; Roger never has been good at carrying on a conversation. Odd that he can be a songwriter and yet so completely unable to express his emotions.

"_What_?" he asks again, looking a little hurt.

"Nothing," she gasps, clearing her throat, "I just…I missed you."

Roger opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again and turns away quickly. He's trying not to cry again but she pretends not to notice, knowing he'll be ashamed, as always.

"Yes, I know, you missed me too," says Mimi, attempting to make him laugh, but somehow it only seems rude once she's said it. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

Roger remains silent, his back turned. Mimi takes him by the shoulders and slips her arms around his neck; she's never allowed his sulks to put her off. He doesn't move away this time, but turns and pulls her against him. He's sobbing openly now, something she never would have imagined him doing before the funeral. Angel's death has weakened them all.

"God," he whispers, shuddering. He pulls away after a few moments and wipes his face with the back of one hand, looking sheepish. "Sorry."

"For what?" Mimi leans to kiss him and notices how pale he is even in the dim light.

Roger sighs and shakes his head. "How are you feeling?" he asks, ignoring the question.

"Like shit," says Mimi dryly. "But less shitty than before."

Roger grins at that, a real grin, the first in a very long time. "Join the club," he says dryly, and leans back against the pillows, pulling Mimi on top of him.

"You sure you're going to be okay?" she asks gently.

Roger laughs, a short puff of air. "That should be my line, babe," he mutters.

"Too bad. You missed it. I got to it first."

"Hell no, I'm not sure. But I think so."

She reaches up and tousles his bleached blond hair; it's starting to grow out again, the barest hint of dark brown visible next to his scalp. Ordinarily he would never let himself slip so far—Roger is one of the few men she's known who's absolutely anal about his appearance.

"I got out," she says softly, not sure why.

Roger stiffens again, then visibly forces himself to relax. "Yeah. Yeah, you did."

Mimi gently detaches herself from Roger's grasp and gets out of bed, making her way over to the chair and gently stroking Roger's red guitar. "I didn't think I was going to," she whispers, almost afraid to admit it. She picks up the guitar and cradles it in her arms like a child.

"Mimi?"

She turns back; Roger's sitting on the edge of the bed watching her, his eyes filled with concern.

"You said you had a song for me," she remembers suddenly.

Roger shakes his head. "Not now. C'mere."

She puts the guitar down and goes back over to Roger. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls me down onto his lap, his breath tickling the back of my neck.

"Mimi," he whispers.

"What?"

"The doctors…what did they tell you?"

Her heart speeds up again, her mind flooding with thoughts. Bright lights, white sheets smelling of disinfectant, men in lab coast with thick glasses and fake smiles. They always smile. It must be plastered on. She takes a deep breath and pushes the thoughts away.

"Nothing. The same as always. They want me to get sober."

Roger looks at her for a moment as though trying to decide whether to question further, then nods slowly.

"And?"

"And I'm going to," she says firmly, ending the conversation. "So how was Santa Fe?"

Roger looks thoughtful, then shakes his head again.

"You tired?" he asks, ignoring the question.

"A little," says Mimi, just to get him to go back to sleep. He looks like hell, and suddenly she doesn't want to talk about the past anymore. She gently pushes on his shoulders until he gets the idea and lies back against the bed. She kisses him lightly and he sighs, shifting so they are lying side by side in the narrow bed. Mimi wraps her arms around him and he snuggles against her chest. She laughs softly.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just usually you won't ever let me hold you."

"Oh," he mutters, looking embarrassed. "Well I um…I don't know."

"Mute," she teases. "You seriously have got to learn to talk one of these days."

"Fuck you," he grumbles, laughing. "I'm supposed to be sleeping, not carrying on a complex conversation."

"Okay, okay." She runs her fingers through his hair again and he closes his eyes. The sun is high overhead outside. It is late afternoon. Mimi watches Roger fall asleep, and tries to push the doctors' faces from her mind. When the rhythm of his breathing slows, she pulls away silently and gets back to her feet. She walks over to her bag and pulls out a beautiful silver pocket watch. Roger's Christmas gift last year. She holds it up to her ear and listens to the ticking, the sound that has lulled her into sleep for the past two weeks, drowning out the sounds of heart monitors and quiet moans from neighboring rooms.

* * *

_The mascara brush looked like a fat black caterpillar. Mimi squinted into the mirror in concentration and tried to swallow her disgust at the sudden image. Too little sleep. Too little sleep and far too much shit to put up with. Of course it wasn't a caterpillar. Of course it couldn't sting her. Lately though, everything was starting to look threatening. She leaned closer and attempted to use the brush to "lift and separate", as the little tube bragged, sounding ever more risqué. The thing only succeeded in depositing several clumps of inky blackness onto her lashes, making her eyes water. Mimi put down the mascara and picked up one of the many bottles of hair product that were scattered around the counter, most of them lying on their sides after having been knocked down by a careless elbow or thrown by a frustrated hand. She had attempted to straighten the long black curls with the new flatiron she'd bought with the money from her part-time job at Hooters in the city, but the curls were fighting back with gusto. She sprayed it one last time, then stepped back to check her work._

_The bruise from a few days ago was still showing a little too much, a long dark streak under one eye. Mimi glanced nervously at her watch, then grabbed the small bottle of brown concealer again and began trying to shade it better. It couldn't be too dark or too light, or someone would notice. And that was unthinkable. If someone noticed, she'd have a lot more than one bruise to show for it. _

"_Mimi, puta, hurry up! You're going to be fucking late again!" The voice was hard, grating, and slightly slurred. He was drunk. Again._

"_Coming!" she called, still desperately trying to hide the dark bruise._

_He flung the bathroom door open then, smashing her in the shoulder with it. He was growing a bit of a beard, she noticed, but not a nice one. More like a week without shaving. Compounded with his yellow teeth and bad liquor breath, he looked like something from a bad horror movie. He grabbed Mimi's wrist, hard enough to leave bruises, and dragged her out into the small hallway. _

"_I'm not fucking driving you to school one more time, you understand? You miss the bus again, you stay home. It's your problem if you gotta fucking primp in front of the mirror too long every morning!"_

"_I wasn't…" Mimi willed herself not to cry. Crying never worked with him. "I was only trying to…"_

"_What, that?" he asked, pointing to the bruise. "I'll give you a matching one if it fucking bothers you so much."_

_Mimi wrenched away from him, his nails leaving weeping red crescent marks in the thin dark skin of her wrist. She turned and ran down the hallway toward the front door, not bothering to grab books or anything else on the way out. _

"_You'll be fucking sorry for this!" he screamed after her, slipping on the wood floor and crashing into things in his drunken rage. "Wait til you get home!"_

_

* * *

_

_Dean Anderson was blond, blue-eyed, dressed in a crisp dark suit, and as delusional as a man could get. When Mimi arrived in his office, he was engaged in a heated dispute with one of the English teachers, who was apparently not happy with the textbooks she was allotted._

"_I'm telling you, this is inappropriate!" the woman growled, thrusting a thick literature book in Anderson's direction. "How can I be expected to teach when something like this happens?"_

_Mimi craned her neck to see what the woman was referring to. Someone had changed the labeling of "Class Set" along the spine to proudly proclaim "Class Sex." Mimi shook her head and shuddered._

"_Deal with it!" said Anderson firmly. "There's nothing I can do for you. Now if you don't mind." He gestured to the door. The woman nodded and walked out, hanging her head._

_Anderson looked up and offered Mimi the phoniest plastered-on smile she'd ever seen._

"_Have a seat, young lady," he said in that false voice adults used when they thought they were doing her a favor._

_Mimi obeyed, sitting in one of the rusty folding chairs by Anderson's desk._

"_Yes?"_

"_Some of your teachers have noticed that you seem to be getting hurt a lot lately."_

_Mimi felt her stomach clench. This could be very, very bad. She forced a casual shrug._

"_It's winter. I'm clumsy. I trip and fall on my way to school sometimes."_

_Anderson narrowed his eyes at her._

"_I was under the impression that you were a dancer."_

"_Yes," said Mimi, more confidently now. "Not a ice skater."_

_Anderson nodded slowly, looking unconvinced. He leaned forward in his plush chair and squinted harder._

"_And that, there, under your eye, what's that?"_

"_Birthmark."_

"_Uh…huh…"_

"_Can I go now, Mr. Anderson? 'Cause I gotta get to class."_

_Anderson sighed and stood up. He was resigned to lose. This round only._

"_All right, Miss Marquez. But would it be all right with you if I called your parents? Just to make sure that they're getting you the proper treatment for all these…accidental injuries, of course."_

"_No!" Mimi cried, panicking. "No, please don't. They…they got a new baby on the way. Can't be bothered by me."_

_Anderson smiled smugly. _

"_I'm sure they'll have a minute to talk to me. Now go along. Wouldn't want to be late for class."_

_She turned and walked out of his office, into the filthy hallway, fighting back tears. If he called, not even school would be safe anymore._

_

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_

It is much, much later when she realizes that she's fallen asleep with the watch still in her palm. The alarm clock on the bedside table forever blinks 12:00 am, but the greenish light now coming in through the dark windows from the club across the street tells her it's at least respectably long after dinner. Roger is gone, and low voices float through the shower curtain from the other room. Mimi sighs and rolls over on the bed, already too tired to bother finding the others.

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Review please! 


	2. Home

**Author's Note: I've changed the rating to M for this chapter. It features a rape at the end. You have been warned. Don't read if you're going to be offended. **

**I guess I probably should have mentioned in that last chapter that the italicized portions are flashbacks. This is a fractured timeline fic. The flashbacks may or may not go in chronological order, so you're just going to have to do your best with them. Anything that's not italicized is part of the present plot and will move in chronological order. If you're confused, feel free to leave a signed review and I'll gladly explain.**

** Thanks for all your support on that last chapter. In case anybody's interested, I'm adding a link to the coverart for this fic in my profile.  
**

**Daydreamer731**

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_**Home**_

"Sometimes I think you were more homeless than I was," says Mimi when it is morning again. Mark is out filming, and they are curled up on the old green couch, watching the snowy sun rise through dusty windows.

"What?" Roger laughs, surprised. At what she has said and at his own reaction. He brushes the back of one hand over her cheek, brushing stray locks of hair off her face.

"When you went to Santa Fe. You left because you felt like there was nobody here for you." She takes hold of his hand, staring intently as she laces her fingers with his.

"Yeah. So?" Roger thinks that as an artist he should understand what she is trying to say, but his mind insists on seeing only the mundane lately, and he enjoys watching her attempt to explain her crazy ideas like this anyway.

"So I left because I felt like I was making things worse. But I knew that everyone here still cared. I knew that I had something to come back to. That's what a home is. That something."

* * *

_Mimi walked slowly up to the window of the old, deserted house and blew a little puff of steam onto the window. It stayed there for a moment, a perfect little circle of white, before fading. She stared at her reflection in the now-clear pane of glass. Her makeup had run, leaving dark circles under her eyes, and the bruise was bright violet against the pallor of her skin. _

_I look like a junkie, she thought, shuddering at the image. _

_She went to the back of the abandoned house and sat down, resting her chin on her knees. She had left school after first period, not even bothering to go back to class after Anderson's threat. She couldn't concentrate on anything but her father's words as she had left the house. He was already angry. If Anderson called…it would be so much worse than ever before. She shuddered in the cold. She shuddered at the memories, the nights when he had come, in the dark, to haunt her. She shuddered thinking of all the nights she had left the house, had come to this place, this overgrown, abandoned lot, because it was the only place she had. The only place where people would leave her alone. Where he didn't know to look. Not yet. _

_Mimi was tempted to just stay at the abandoned house, to break a window and finally find out what was inside, to make a place for herself there and never go home again. But that would mean not going back to school. And not going back to school meant no chance at a scholarship and no chance at college. And no chance of escape. Ever._

_It was starting to get dark out. The whole day must have gone by, slipping into the sickness of dread. Mimi got to her feet and slowly dusted off the back of her skirt. Her knee was swollen and darkly bruised, her tights caked in drying blood. The temperature was dropping again, but she had been outside in the cold so long her skin felt numb to it. _

_She walked the way home as slowly as she could, almost in a daze, praying that he wouldn't be home, that he somehow would have vanished, that he finally would have had too much to drink, so much that his heart had given out. It was the same wish, every day, every night, every morning. And it never came true._

_

* * *

_

"What's wrong?" asks Roger, trying to keep the note of panic out of his voice. Mimi shakes her head, but he can already see that something is going on behind her dark eyes. For the past few moments she has fallen so silent and still he can hear the blood pounding in his own ears. He isn't used to this. With her, it's a constant blur of motion. He can't ever tell her how much it will always scare him now to see her still and silent.

"I was just thinking." She raises an eyebrow, gives him a little half-smile. The kind that tells him not to ask. In a year, he has already learned not to respect it.

"What about?"

"Home," says Mimi, and Roger gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sees the pill bottle leering at him from the nightstand in the other room.

* * *

_The door opened slowly, agonizingly. Mimi stepped in without looking into the small, dingy family room, and closed the door behind her as quietly as possible. There was a dim light on, but that didn't mean anything. She kept her eyes on the floor and attempted to walk straight through to the false safety of her bedroom._

"_Slow down," said a voice out of the haze. A female voice. Her mother._

_Mimi jumped. Her mother was lying on the couch, looking pale and disheveled, her stomach looking even larger than it had the night before. She was sick all the time now, and he wasn't helping. If anything, the pregnancy was making things worse._

_Mimi shuddered again, thinking of the new baby, the new life being brought into this household. _

"_I can't…I gotta get to my room before—"_

"_He's not here." Her mother motioned to the spot on the couch beside her._

_Mimi paused for a moment, torn. A part of her wanted to go, to be mothered for a few moments, but then she had never had much of that. Her mother inevitably ended up getting angry, and getting almost violent, like he did. They had married young, not even out of high school. It had started with a pregnancy and ended up in misery. Mimi sighed and shook her head. It didn't matter how much she wanted it, the simple familial affection she craved would never come from here. As long as she could remember, she had not been so much as hugged or tucked into bed._

"_Where'd he go?"_

_Her mother shrugged._

"_Out. Some cabrone called and upset him."_

_Mimi felt her heart speed up. Anderson. Anderson had called, her father had gone out drinking. He would be back any minute, and the alcohol would only add to his fury. _

"_I have to go," she whispered, and turned back toward her room._

"_Wait! Chica, stay with me."_

_It was that voice again, the one she couldn't stand. That whining, needy voice that had no right coming out of any parent's mouth. Mimi hated her for it, and yet she couldn't blame her mother. Her mother had run away from home as a girl, and had found that she couldn't make it on the streets. She had met a boy several years older than her when she bought drugs from him on the street corner. Before she knew what had happened, she was pregnant with his baby. He had said he was willing to clean up his act for her, to get a real job, a real home, a real place to raise a child. But that hadn't lasted long. He'd spent exactly three years working on and off as a cashier before quitting and turning to alcohol in his frustration. He was a violent drunk, and he was drunk all the time now. With the new baby on the way, things had gone from bad to worse._

_Mimi sighed and turned back to her mother._

"_What, Mami? Do you need some more of the medicine for your back?"_

_Mrs. Marquez had always been sickly, partly from bad genes and partly from an even worse lifestyle. Though she was only twenty-eight, her second pregnancy was taking a lot out of her. She had a million aches and pains and a million expensive prescriptions from an even more expensive doctor that none of them could afford._

_Mrs. Marquez shook her head._

"_No…just…stay with me, chica."_

_Mimi shuddered despite herself. Her entire family was falling apart before her eyes. Her father became more and more caught up in the downward spiral of alcoholism and failing health, her mother was pregnant with a baby she could neither bear nor afford._

_

* * *

_

"Honey, I'm home!" calls Mark, pulling shut the sliding door with the heel of his shoe. He has his camera in one hand, and a large casserole of something in the other.

"Fuck you," says Roger absently. It has become his programmed response to Mark's entire arsenal of greetings. Maureen loves to mimic it whenever possible.

"I brought sustenance," says Mark, ignoring Roger's comment.

"Dork," says Mimi, though her reaction is decidedly warmer than Roger's. "I'm going to bed. Join me?"

"In a little," says Roger, kissing her cheek. _Are you okay? _he wants to scream, _be honest with me for half a second. _But he just sits and watches her go into the bedroom. "What the hell is that?" he snaps at Mark, the moment she is out of earshot. Taking things out on his best friend has become another of Roger's programmed responses.

"Rice and beans. All organic. Joanne made it." Mark starts banging things around in the kitchen, searching through the closets though they both know there's nothing there. Roger gets the distinct impression that he's trying to avoid talking.

"Why didn't you tell me she was getting out today?" Roger asks, not even bothering to ask how Mark happened to obtain a casserole of rice and beans from Joanne.

Mark fidgets with the plate he's washing, not answering. Suddenly Roger is furious.

"_Fuck, _Mark, I thought—I thought—" He clamps his mouth shut again, unwilling to let himself choke in front of Mark. He doesn't know when it's become unacceptable to show emotion in front of his best friend.

"I didn't know!" Mark protests, his voice rising.

"Damn it, Mark, you _had _to know! What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing!" says Mark, then seems to reconsider. He sighs, then comes over and sits next to Roger. "She called me at work today and told me to come pick her up."

Roger looks at him hard and he fidgets with a stray thread on the edge of his sweater.

"Was she discharged?" Roger asks, trying again to be calm.

Mark shrugs. "I didn't ask. I assume so." But he doesn't sound all that certain.

"Did she tell you what the doctors said?" Mark gets up and walks over to the window, crossing his arms over his chest. Roger swallows something sour-tasting at the back of his throat. "Did she?" Roger presses.

Mark shakes his head. "Roger—"

"What?" he snaps.

"No. No, she didn't, and no, I didn't ask. I do recall that _you_ told me once that I shouldn't press you to tell me that kind of thing. I'm just giving her the same respect. If you want to know, ask her."

"I did," Roger sighs.

Mark gives him an odd look. One that suggests he sees the paranoia Roger has become so afraid to admit to.

"Then why are you asking me?" Mark goes back into the kitchen, and begins serving himself a plate from the steaming casserole dish.

"Because…I don't know. I'm going to bed."

"All right," says Mark, nodding to himself. "Good night."

"Don't do that," mutters Roger.

"What?" asks Mark, looking confused.

"Talk in rhyme. That's my job."

"Oh," says Mark, still looking lost. "Sleep well."

"Fuck off," mumbles Roger, then walks into the bedroom.

Mimi's asleep, the blankets pulled all the way up over her head. The air is so cold it burns in Roger's lungs. he gently pulls back the covers and crawls under. Mimi shifts a bit in her sleep, and Roger wraps his arms around her.

"You're cold," she whispers, only half awake.

"We have no heat, remember?" says Roger, knowing she isn't really following.

"Sometimes I think I won't mind that part," she continues, shifting so her back is to him.

"What?" asks Roger, unnerved.

"Not having to be cold anymore."

* * *

_The sudden sound of the door opening broke the silence that had fallen. He threw it open with a bang, the door flying inward and crashing into the wall, leaving a distinct dent in the garish faded orange wallpaper there._

_Every muscle in Mimi's body clenched, her mind reeling. It would do her no good to run now. He would find her, break down the door to her room if it was necessary. Running would only make him angrier. So she stood, rooted to the spot, feeling utterly helpless._

_It was always these times that she hated her mother the most. Her mother was the one person who might, just might, have enough influence on him to make him stop. To make him leave Mimi alone. She had changed him completely once, after all, and he still seemed very much in love with her at times. And yet Mrs. Marquez never tried. Never protested. Never comforted her daughter when it was over. She just sat there, watching, from her little game-side-seat on the couch like a horrified fan at an unimaginably vulgar sporting event. _

"_Mimi!" he roared. "Puta! Spreading lies about your papi at school. Too selfish to care about your family. No, no, only think of yourself."_

_He was staggering drunk, barely able to stand up, his eyes ablaze with alcohol induced mindlessness mixed with the craze of rage. He stumbled into the family room toward Mimi, knocking things over as he moved._

"_I told you you would pay."_

_Mimi shook her head, fighting off tears once more. She hated herself for crying, and yet she could never help it._

"_I tried. It's not my fault…I told him…Anderson…told him it was accidents…he-he wouldn't listen to me!"_

_He stumbled closer, his big, meaty hands clamping onto her thin shoulders. Mimi had to force herself not to pull away. He was a big man, years of drinking ruining his boyish good looks in rolls of flab, rotten teeth, and chronic bad breath. The stench of sour alcohol descended across her face as he loomed over her, and she had to force down bile._

"_I told you you would pay," he growled again. "You won't be leaving this house again. No more school. I can't trust you away from here."_

_It was a death sentence. Mimi forced herself to nod meekly, hoping that when he was sober again he would forget. But it wasn't likely. While he did forget things, such a threatening vow was almost certain to stay with him. Somehow he always managed to remember the bad and forget the good. _

_He clamped one claw-like hand around her wrist again, the same one as that morning, and dragged her toward the bedroom. It was dark inside and he didn't bother with the lights. Shadow-shapes swam before Mimi's eyes out of the looming darkness, the visual incarnation of the thoughts haunting her mind. She knew what this meant. What it always meant. In some ways, she would have preferred an all-out beating. Right now, even the prospect of death seemed merciful._

_She forced herself into the dark, cold, numb place she had created for herself as he tore at her clothes, forced her down onto the bed, smothered her with his enormous weight and stench. Her head spun with nausea as he moved up and down, much too roughly, bruising, tearing. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, forcing herself not to scream. He would be rougher if she screamed. She had learned this lesson quickly. It was far from the first time. She held herself stiff as a board beneath him, not allowing him anything easily. If he wanted her, he would have to take her against her will. _

_At last, when she thought she could take no more, he pulled away and left, just as quickly, slamming the bedroom door and yelling something Mimi couldn't make out. He hadn't even bothered to pick up his clothes. It was not a secret what he did to his daughter every night. _

_There was blood on the sheets when at last she managed to turn on the light, and fell back against the pillows, sobbing silently._

_

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_

Review, please!


	3. A New Deal

Author's Note: I'm gonna be out of town the end of this week, so I may not get an update out until mid next week. Happy holidays.

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A New Deal

The Life Café is completely deserted, though it's both lunchtime and a Friday. Mark arrives at 12:01, unsurprised to find that the 'other party' is late for their meeting. Typical. By five after, he is seated with a sickeningly expensive veggie burger steaming in front of him. It has gotten cold by the time Benjamin Coffin III waltzes in the door, walking as though he has all the time in the world. Mark grimaces into his plate and waves Benny over.

"What the hell is this about?" If Mark's learned anything in the past year, it's how to show a little backbone.

"What, I can't have lunch with my old buddy Mark without getting interrogated anymore?" Benny winks, eliciting giggles from several waitresses who are standing behind the counter. If nothing else, he has always been the spitting image of 'tall, dark, and handsome.' "I thought we could get together, you know, shoot the breeze. Like old times."

"Cut the crap, Benny. Old times are old times. Gone." Mark pauses as a waitress brings Benny a menu and a glass of water. "I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes. Now why are you here?"

"Well, well, Marky's gotten tough. My, the Food Emporium's taught you a lot. Maybe I should've ignored my mother when she laughed at me for playing with a cash register when I was a kid." Another waitress appears and Benny leans up to whisper in her ear, making sure she's got his order just right.

Mark taps his fingers impatiently. "Look, I've got a job to do. I've got food to earn and meds to pay for. Now either you tell me what you're doing here, or I'm walking out and getting back to my life."

"All right. Fair enough." Benny smiles, but it isn't nice. "I've come for a little celebration. Cyber Arts will be a reality yet."

"What?" Mark's stomach tightens. This is the last thing they need. "I thought Muffy tightened your leash, pulled you out."

"I got new investors. Alison and I…let's just say things didn't work out." Benny's food arrives and he grins at the waitress.

"You're divorced?" Mark pauses, takes a bite of burger and nearly chokes. "So then what, this whole crapshoot starts all over again?" Really the last thing they need.

"Not exactly. Not if you make the right decision." Benny picks the lemon off the edge of his glass and puts it straight into his mouth. An appropriate enough habit.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Listen, Cohen, here's the deal. I've bought back the lot, but not you're building. Yet. Either you all agree to keep your noses out of the project, or that's next on my agenda. I'm kinda thinking Cyber Arts would be nicer with two buildings. You know, tear down the ugly apartment building next door."

"You can't do that!" Mark says, nearly shouting now. "You'd have to pay us if you did."

"Just keep your friends quiet and I shouldn't have to." Benny grins again and gets up, slapping a wad of bills on the table without even looking at the check. "That should cover it. Don't say I never did anything for you."

* * *

_Mimi rested her forehead on the cold porcelain of the toilet seat and tried to catch her breath. Her stomach was rolling dangerously and her throat burned with bile. Her head was spinning from lack of oxygen and sleep deprivation. There hadn't been a single night for the past two weeks when she hadn't been jolted from sleep, drenched in sweat, her stomach tied in knots._

_She took a deep breath and cautiously sat up on her heels, shivering. She had hardly eaten anything since she'd been sick, and suddenly Mimi felt that she barely had the energy to move. She pushed herself up slowly against the toilet bowl and staggered over to the sink, wincing as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. _

_Her father had followed through on his thread, keeping her home for the past two weeks and withdrawing her from school. Each day faded into the next, time crawling along, a hellish march toward the end with no sign of mercy or relief. It had to be close to the holidays, she knew, but she had no concept of how much time had gone by. The sickness, the panic, the pain faded into a cloud of absolute misery that pervaded all._

_Mimi leaned forward and turned the water on, running her hands through its icy cold relief. She splashed it on her face, the cold hitting her with a jolt, and allowed herself a few sips before turning it off again and stumbling back toward her bedroom. The floorboards in the hall creaked, and she drew a deep breath, half expecting to hear his angry footsteps in the hall._

_She made it back to the bedroom and closed and locked the door, then sat down on the bed, one hand on her stomach, an awful thought turning itself over and over in her mind. _

_What if there was a reason she was sick?_

_She pulled up her shirt and slowly ran her fingers over the flat expanse of skin, imagining for a moment that she could feel something there. His child, growing inside her, taking nourishment from her body like a parasite from its host. The idea sickened her, and she tried to force it out of her mind, getting shakily back to her feet and going over to stand by the window. _

_It was dark outside, but the blinds were broken and rays of blue moonlight were streaming in. Mimi closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, imagining herself in a love story from one of the romance novels she sometimes read in the corner used bookstore while she was passing time, waiting for it to be safe to go home. She smiled a little, secretly, to herself, the scene forming in her mind's eye._

_It would be night. The lights would be out and the room would be lit in the soft blue moonlight alone. There would be a man there, and he would love her. He would be quiet and gentle. There would be no yelling, no struggling, no pain…For once, it wouldn't have to hurt._

_The last thought brought the memories flooding back, and Mimi opened her eyes, the daydream broken. The calendar on the little bedside table caught her eye. She had lost track of time entirely._

_It was Christmas Eve, she realized suddenly. No wonder he was out. He must be at some bar party, drinking himself into an alcohol induced stupor and fucking every girl in sight who could bear to look at him. Mimi shuddered, despite herself. The very thought of him made her sick. In the Marquez household, holidays only meant more alcohol, more shouting, more violence._

_She laid down on the bed and tried to get some much-needed sleep, but her mind was already too far awake. Suddenly the numbness was beginning to fade, beginning to lift. The daydream she had allowed in had made a hole in her defenses, and now they were being ripped away. She rolled over, wrapping the thin, threadbare blanket around her as tightly as she could, shivering. She always slept with the door locked and the sheets bundled around her. If she didn't, he might come in in the middle of the night. She rolled over again, then sat up, her head clearing with a sudden burst of energy. He was gone. It was after one o'clock, and he still wasn't home. He wouldn't be home that night. _

_Mimi swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. The change in position was a little too quick, though, and she had to grab the edge of the bedside table to steady herself and keep from falling. Silently cursing her own weakness, Mimi went over to stand by the window again, looking out. There weren't many lights around. Her house was in one of the still-rundown and inexpensive Bronx neighborhoods, far away from just about anything worthwhile. It would be hard to get anywhere on foot. But this was a once in a lifetime chance. He didn't go out often, and when he got back, he was likely to be even worse than usual. Mimi put a hand to her stomach again and took a deep breath._

_She wasn't going to take it anymore._

_She went to the closet and opened the doors quietly, but then couldn't think what to take. She didn't have anything that would do her much good. Mimi went to the bed and knelt down beside it, then ran her fingers through the space under the mattress, pulling out a handful of small bills. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. For now._

_She dressed quickly in a pair of old jeans, a black sweater, and a heavier jacket, quickly stuffing the money into the side of her boot. _

_Mimi crept out to the front door and opened it slowly, wincing as it creaked. Her heart was pounding and her head felt like it was about to explode. She thought for a moment of her mother, lying in bed, her stomach growing with each passing day. Mimi felt a pang of guilt at leaving her and the new baby with him, but she told herself that it would be better this way. He never fought with her mother anyway. Wouldn't lay a hand on her. Maybe the new baby would be luckier._

_Forcing all other thoughts out of her mind, Mimi stepped out into the cold and shut the door behind her, hoping to god that her old life would stay locked within._

* * *

"Hey."

Mimi jumps a bit as she registers Roger's hand on her shoulder. She realizes she doesn't know what time or day it is, but these things are not so unusual now. His hand feels heavy against her skin, and it burns a bit.

"Hi." She coughs a little as she speaks, also not unusual.

"You were having a nightmare." Roger sits on the edge of the bed, but he's obviously not happy. His voice is practically accusatory.

"Yeah. I guess I was." Mimi sits up a little, decides that perhaps that isn't the best idea when the room starts to spin again. "Thanks for waking me up." She isn't about to tell him she can't remember the last time she did something other than sleep.

"I think you're running a fever." He runs a hand across her forehead and Mimi swats it away.

"I'm fine, Rog. It's winter. I've got a cold." Suddenly she wishes he would leave. Or at least stop talking.

"I want to take you to the hospital."

"I'm not going anywhere, Roger. Let me sleep. I'll be fine."

He stares for a minute, then walks off angrily. Once he's gone, she almost feels lonely.

_

* * *

_

_There was a thin layer of ice on the streets, but thankfully it was a clear evening, and there was no more snow falling. Perhaps it would not be a white Christmas this year. Mimi quickened her step and tried to keep her breathing steady. She had been walking for what must have been an hour, starting out in the direction of the abandoned house, and then just continuing on. The panic had started a few minutes ago, coming on with the realization that she had absolutely no idea where she was or where she was going. There was no one she could go to for help; he'd always made sure she didn't have any friends. The precious little money she had wasn't going to last long, and she couldn't afford to spend too much of it until she knew where she could get more. The adrenaline had faded, and the sickness was coming back, twisting her stomach and making her vision swim. _

_Mimi caught sight of a small park ahead, the streetlights casting an eerie yellow glow on the bushes in the dark. She made her way over to a small bench, holding onto the fake-looking fence around the perimeter of the garden. It wasn't until she was already there that she noticed there was someone else sitting on the bench. She drew back, surprised and a little scared._

_It was a man, she realized, squinting. Or, not really—he couldn't have been more than a few years older than she was. He was thin, she could see that even through his heavy coat, his face pointed and angular. He had chin length black hair, slicked to a shine with some sort of grease. His eyes were dark, almost black, and shining in the yellow glare of the streetlights. He was looking at her._

"_Sit," he ordered suddenly, motioning to the space beside him on the bench._

_Mimi tensed at the sound of his voice, almost commanding, but she didn't have the energy to run, and she couldn't keep standing there forever. She made her way slowly over to the other side of the bench and sat on the edge, as far away as she could get from him. _

"_You run away?" he asked with an easy nonchalance that made her anxiety grow._

"_No," lied Mimi, unconvincingly._

_He nodded._

"'_Course not." He paused for a moment, looking her up and down slowly, meticulously. "What from?"_

"_Told you. I didn't."_

_He laughed a little at that._

"_Stubborn. Good, you're gonna need it." He thrust one rough-palmed hand at her from under his beaten leather jacket. "I'm Rusty."_

_Mimi shook his hand, but didn't say anything. She wasn't sure why, but she didn't want him to know her name. _

"_Don't got a name?" _

_She glared at him._

"'_Course I do. Don't mean I gotta tell you it."_

_Rusty laughed again, shaking his head at her. His laugh was slightly hoarse, but it wasn't a bad sound. It sounded genuine enough. It had been such a long time since Mimi had heard anyone really laugh that it was almost a shock to her ears. _

"_Okay, No Name. Listen, you got a job?"_

_Mimi glared at him. She didn't like all his questions, but she had nowhere better to go, and his company was almost welcome._

"_Okay, I heard enough," said Rusty, before Mimi could come up with another lie. "Look, I seen enough like you finished in a couple days. You don't wanna be alone on the street."_

_Mimi felt her heart speed up again. Had he seen through her that easily? Was this all a terrible mistake?_

_She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned over, fighting a new wave of nausea._

"_Okay, what you suggest?" She shot back, lapsing more and more into the street talk she'd been trying so hard to banish recently._

"_Look, there's some people, an old building, a few blocks away over there." He gestured with his head, then stood up, making it clear he intended to leave. "I gotta go. But listen, No Name, come find us. Won't last a day alone." He turned and walked off._

_Mimi forced herself not to watch. She turned straight forward, looking at the sky instead._

_It was almost dawn._

* * *

Mark finds Roger sitting on the couch playing angry chords on his guitar when he enters the loft. "Hi honey. I'm home."

"Fuck off," says Roger, by way of greeting.

Mark goes into the kitchen and starts unloading the groceries he's brought home from work. He can already tell something is very wrong. "What do you want for dinner?" he asks, trying to ignore the feeling that he's turning into a housewife.

"Nothing," mutters Roger.

Mark shrugs and gets out a jar of peanut butter. "All right, suit yourself. Starve." He's had more than enough of Roger's sulking lately.

"Fuck off," says Roger again.

"Where's Mimi?" Mark asks, trying to change the subject.

"Asleep," says Roger sullenly.

Mark gives him an odd look. "Since when—"

"It's none of your fucking business if she wants to sleep!" he shouts, and Mark realizes suddenly that this is what has him so upset.

"Okay, okay," he says, throwing up his hands in surrender. "I just thought she might want dinner since you don't."

"Sorry to disappoint," says Roger. "I know you get a kick out of playing mom."

Mark goes back to the peanut butter, realizing that has forgotten bread. He pulls out a box of crackers instead and begins to spread it on them. The crackers are slightly stale and they keep breaking as he spreads the peanut butter. Finally, he gives up, gets a bowl, and dumps the whole mess into it. It will still taste the same if he has to eat it with a spoon.

"Mark?"

He jumps. Roger has somehow put down his guitar and made his way over to stand in the kitchen without Mark noticing.

"What?"

"Do we have any money?"

Mark narrows his eyes at him. "Why?"

"Nothing," he says, too quickly. "Just, the doctor wants me to get some new meds. And I need money."

"Oh." Mark's mind starts racing with possible solutions. He knows Roger wouldn't ask unless it was serious. "I'm sure we can work something out."

His mind is already playing and replaying the conversation with Benny.

* * *

Review please! 


	4. Crashing Down

_Author's Note: Happy New Year to everyone! I'm sorry these updates are taking so long, but I think that's just the way this fic is going to be. I'm very committed to making them as high-quality as possible in terms of development, but real life has a way of infringing on my writing time. After this chapter I will be beyond the rewrite and into writing everything for these chapters, so my estimate for updates would be about every two weeks. I'll try to get them out faster, but don't worry if you don't see updates very often--I haven't forgotten and I have no intention of dropping this fic. I hope you're still enjoying._

* * *

Chapter 4

"Go get in bed with him." Mimi points to Roger's sleeping form, and tries not to make too much noise laughing at the sight of Mark's usually-pale features turning bright red.

"Mimi, what the hell?" Mark grunts as she puts a finger to his lips, shushing him. He whispers carefully when he opens his mouth again. "Why?"

"Just do it. It'll be funny." She isn't quite sure why she's doing it, but she has decided to take advantage of the unusual spurt of optimism that has captured her this morning. She needs to face Roger while she's still strong. And she needs him awake, now.

"Mimi, I really don't think I should—" He shuts up as Mimi pushes him forcefully down onto the bed and Roger groans awake.

There is a beat of silence while Roger stretches and opens his eyes. Another. A third, and then…

"_Mark_! What the fuck!" Roger staggers to his feet, a string of curses falling from his lips as he struggles to get his balance. Mimi laughs weakly, and Mark turns even redder.

"She made me," he mutters, pointing accusingly.

Roger looks stunned for a moment, glancing back and forth between the two of them trying to decide who to believe. "Why?" he asks at last, calming a bit.

Mimi shrugs, still laughing. "Can't a dying girl have a bit of fun?"

The silence that descends is like a slap in the face. Mimi feels cut by her own words, though she isn't sure where they've come from all of a sudden. She's tried so hard to avoid facing this reality, it's snuck up in her subconscious and stabbed her in the back. Mark can't take his eyes off of Roger, though his whole face is filled with dread. Roger looks as though all the air has gone out of him.

"We need to talk," he says at last, very quietly.

* * *

_Smack was sick. They had found him lying facedown, nearly drowning in a pool of his own vomit, filthy blond hair plastered to the back of his neck with sweat. He still hadn't woken up, and it was nearly the middle of the afternoon, but he was still breathing—barely—so they knew he wasn't dead. Rusty had gone off a few hours ago, claiming he was in search of medicine, but no one expected him to come back with anything for anyone but himself. _

_Jaws had made a fire in one of the trashcans, throwing a lit match onto the pile of old newspapers he'd scavenged the day before, but the little bit of heat was hardly enough to make a difference in the single-digit weather. The first snow had come late this year, some time around the first week of February. Now it was nearing Valentine's Day, and it had been snowing for three days straight._

"_Hey, No Name!"_

_Mimi opened one eye a crack and saw Jaws staring at her. He'd gotten his name because his front four teeth were missing, leaving a dark gaping hole between the two sharp canines. He always wore a battered old leather jacket that he had apparently won in a fight, but would never talk about. It was his prized possession. Jaws was somehow mysteriously indebted to Rusty, so he hadn't tried to usurp leadership of the group yet. He wasted no time, however, in ordering the others around when Rusty was gone._

_Mimi rolled over and draped one arm over her eyes, attempting to ignore him. She had learned over the past month and a half that it was better not to engage in one of Jaws's bitch sessions. _

"_No Name!"_

_Mimi continued to ignore him. She changed positions again, trying to ease the pain in her stomach. It had been long enough that she was now sure she was not pregnant, but she was still sick more often than not. Now that the weather was bad, it was even harder to get food, too._

_Jaws kicked at her, the toe of his combat boot hitting the small of her back. Mimi rolled back toward him and batted at his foot with one hand. _

"_Fuck off," she muttered._

_

* * *

_

Roger sits out on the fire escape until he can't feel the cold anymore. It's drizzling a little, and occasionally little pieces of ice bounce off his face and arms, burning like ashes. On a phone pole below, one of the posters he has tacked up looking for a band is wilting. The ink is running in the damp weather, and the paper hangs over as if ashamed to show the world its sorry state. He almost can't bear to look at it.

"Roger."

He doesn't turn around. In a way, he has been waiting for Mark to come out and check on him. Because that's what Mark does. But now that he is here, Roger can't seem to find the energy to talk. The past few hours have sapped all the resolve he has left.

"Roger, it's fucking freezing out here." When Roger turns at last, he sees Mark holding out his very worn jacket. "At least put this on."

"Fuck off," says Roger. "I'm already sick."

"No point in making it worse." Mark shoves the jacket at him. Roger takes it but doesn't put it on. "Where's Mimi?"

"Downstairs," says Roger noncommittally. "Asleep."

"Okay. You might want to pay a little attention to her, you know. You can't just ignore her because she's sick."

Suddenly, Roger wants very much to hit Mark. "_Fuck_, Mark. I do pay attention to her. But what am I supposed to do? All she ever feels well enough to do is sleep. Am I supposed to spend all the rest of our time together staring at her lying in bed? I'm not…This isn't how I pictured things."

"But that's life, though, isn't it Roger." Mark's voice is quiet. Just real, not accusing.

Roger is silent for a moment, searching for something to say. He doesn't feel like a fight. Not looking at Mark, he shoulders into the jacket and pulls it closed. Below, the poster catches his eye again.

"My poster died."

"That it did." Mark chuckles. "Should we take it to The Life and have a funeral for it?"

"Fuck off." Roger sighs. "I think the band died too. And it hasn't even started yet."

"Why do you say that?"

"Nobody's contacted me. You know that." Roger is getting frustrated. He likes frustration a hell of a lot better than fear.

"But someone did contact you, Roger."

"Maureen doesn't count." Roger hangs over the railing a little, feeling dangerous.

"She's got a good voice."

"But I don't like her."

They are silent for another long moment. Roger runs his fingers along the railing, scraping long trails in the frost there with his nails. It's painful, and Mark grimaces at the sound.

"So what's wrong?" says Mark at last.

"Why would you think that anything's wrong?" Roger is stalling.

"Because every time you come out here to be by yourself, it means you're thinking of doing something like jumping off that railing. Come on, Roger. It's cold out here." Mark stares Roger down for a very long time, his ice blue eyes like cutting glass.

"I just…tell me something, Mark." Roger turns away, unable to look him in the eye.

"What?"

"How do you know…when it's just too much?"

Mark comes over and sits beside Roger on the lower part of the railing. He does not look angry, only sad. He has been expecting this, dreading it for three weeks. His voice is filled with resignation when he speaks. "What do you mean, Roger?"

"When um…when it's time to…Mark, I can't do this. I'm just not the kind of guy who loses himself in this kind of thing. I mean I've always been a fuck up, right? I run away. I let other people help me and when I'm done I leave. It's just the way I am. You can't…expect me to do anything else. It's just not what I do."

"How long?" asks Mark.

"Maybe um…maybe six months. If she keeps taking the medication, which she isn't."

* * *

_Jaws grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly. He wasn't kidding anymore. Mimi squirmed away, jolted awake by the flood of adrenaline that came with his touch._

"_Get up," he insisted. "You fuckin' boyfriend's gone."_

_Mimi sat up at last and glared at him, not willing to let him gain any ground._

"_He ain't my fuckin' boyfriend," she shot back. "I ain't never fucked him yet." It was a flat-out lie, but she knew Jaws was looking for something to be angry about. Perhaps if she denied it, he'd find someone else to pick on._

_Jaws narrowed his eyes at her. He was angry._

"_You gone fucked every other asshole in the neighborhood."_

_Mimi bit back a sharp retort and tried to convince herself that the pain in the back of her throat was from the cold. It was true. She'd escaped her father only to find herself with a multitude of other men, some of whom were much, much worse. But it was the only way she could make money, and food was essential. As it was, she could hardly stand the thought of it._

"_It's a living," she shot back angrily._

"_Yeah? Make much?" Jaws took a step closer, towering over her. Mimi scrambled to her feet, though she was still a good ten inches shorter than he was. "Where's it all go?"_

_Mimi continued to back away, but he was relentless, advancing on her one step at a time. She could smell his sour breath, and it brought back memories that were all too recent. She shivered, fighting nausea._

"_I gotta eat," she managed weakly. She jumped as her shoulder blades came into contact with the wall suddenly. They were on the second floor of the hollow concrete interior of the building. The windows were open holes, like huge sores with light pouring in._

"_How much ya charge?" He was still advancing on her, closing in like a cat about to pounce on its prey. Her heart sped up._

"_Twenty," she stammered._

"_Twenty?" Jaws mocked._

"_Hourly."_

_The gang's two other girls were watching now, though they had been feigning sleep earlier. Perox was up on her knees, her white-blonde hair half-covering her face. Mama lay on her side, her face propped up on one hand. She looked bored. _

"'_Course," said Jaws, glancing at the girls and winking, "you gonna give a discount to you friends, uh?"_

_Mimi swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat._

"_I—I don't—"_

_Jaws leaned closer, his breath moist across her face, his lips just barely brushing hers. Instinctively, Mimi jabbed at him with her knee, catching him square in the gut. Jaws gasped, reeling backward, clutching his stomach. Mimi darted away, out in the open, turning back just in time to see Jaws lean over and vomit a stream of whitish liquid onto the concrete floor. He coughed a few times, wiped his mouth, then turned back to Mimi, his face livid._

_For a moment she contemplated running, but there was nowhere else to go. Get on the wrong side of a gang, you're finished, thought Mimi, another piece of Rusty's advice echoing through her mind. If she ran now, she'd be on her own. She would try not to sleep at first—sleeping was the most dangerous time—but eventually she'd get tired. She'd get too tired, so tired that it just wouldn't matter anymore. She'd close her eyes for a few minutes and they'd find her._

_Mimi shook herself, trying to banish the images from her mind. She didn't like the gang, but at least it was safe. Rusty had taken a certain inexplicable liking to her, and she couldn't help but like it. She'd never gotten much attention from anyone before, and it was intoxicating. Granted, it was never quite what she wanted—he was rough, cold…he never seemed to care. No matter how hard she tried, he was never satisfied, never treated her any differently. He was a far cry from one of her romance novel men. There were nights when Mimi felt she would do anything just for one real kiss. She sighed and forced her thoughts back to Jaws. She knew that Mama and Perox would waste no time in offing her if they ever got the chance. They were probably cheering him on right now. _

"_Fucking hell!" he cried, turning on her, "You gonna play like that, bitch, you gonna fucking pay!"_

_

* * *

_

"Maureen?" Joanne puts her briefcase on the floor next to her tan leather sofa, and wonders why the apartment is so damn quiet. She doesn't regret inviting Maureen to move in, but it certainly has changed the atmosphere of the place. This is the first time in weeks that she's come home to the hum of the heat, rather than screamed telephone conversations, music turned on loud, or some kind of rehearsal.

"Honey, are you here? I'm sorry I'm late, I got held up at the office. Fuck the PC Nazis; they need to get over themselves." She continues talking to drown out the doubt that has begun forming in the back of her mind. It's actually been somewhat comforting for her to come home and find Maureen being…well, Maureen. Finally some amount of consistency in this crazy whirlwind relationship of theirs. Now, in the silence, the doubt is threatening to come crowding back.

Joanne makes her way into the kitchen, her eyes pealed for signs of movement. As nervous as she is, she wouldn't put it past Maureen to jump out and surprise her. Nothing. She walks through the little combination office and den she has built for herself to work in, staring at the bookshelves and rock statues that line the walls. Everything in place. She thinks about the news she has just received as she makes her way down the hall to the bedroom. The jittery feeling that has been in the pit of her stomach all day grows.

Maureen is lying on her back on the bed, eyes closed, headphones clamped firmly over her ears. The music is something angry, and turned up loud enough that Joanne can hear the beat of the drums from the doorway. She stops and stares for a minute, wondering what has happened. Maureen listens to music often enough, yes, but there is nothing quiet about it. She is the kind of person who insists on singing and dancing along with whatever she is listening to.

"Honeybear?" Joanne puts a hand on her shoulder, and Maureen jumps. She sits up all too quickly and practically rips the headphones off her ears.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm home. What are you listening to?" Joanne sits on the edge of the bed and attempts to take the walkman from Maureen. She grabs it possessively and shoves it under her pillow.

"Oh, just an old tape I found. Gives me inspiration. I was meditating."

Joanne narrows her eyes. Meditation would explain Maureen's silence, but last time she checked yoga was not done to heavy metal rock at deafening volume. "Come eat dinner. I have something to tell you." The nervous feeling comes back with a vengeance.

"Not hungry," says Maureen. "The process of digestion might interrupt the internal balance which my meditation has established."

"Maureen…"

"Come on, Pookie. I'm doing this for my health. You were the one who said I needed to calm down." Maureen smiles sweetly. "Besides, you can tell me whatever it is right here."

"I don't know…" Joanne is beginning to have doubts about telling Maureen tonight.

"Please?" Maureen pouts.

Joanne sighs. It doesn't seem like such a big deal now. "I've been offered a promotion. With a significant raise."

"Pookie, that's great!" Maureen gives her a rather long kiss, then pulls away abruptly. "What's the catch?"

Joanne feels her heart hit rock bottom. She should have figured Maureen for knowing immediately that there is something behind her joy at the offer. Maureen is nothing if not perceptive.

"I would have to move. To Washington."

* * *

_Jaws staggered forward, still disoriented, plunging one hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. The hand came back out a moment later, almost as though in slow motion. The razor glinted in the light from the windows. Mimi stood frozen, unable to move. He was advancing much too fast. He raised his arm above her head, brought it down quickly. She stiffened, readying herself for the blow. The razor scraped into her arm, the pain searing. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Something colliding with her shoulder, sending her reeling, tumbling to the floor. The impact with the concrete came as a painful surprise, knocking the wind from her lungs. She lay there for a moment, stunned, gold and green spots dancing before her eyes. The sounds of a struggle were all around her, echoing off the unpadded, crumbling concrete walls. _

_Mimi blinked, forced her eyes to clear, forced herself to look back up. She knew Jaws would not give up that easily. He had been defeated once, he would not give in without revenge._

_Jaws had lost the razor—it was lying on the floor a few feet from Mimi's hand. Rusty had returned and had Jaws in a headlock—he must have knocked her out of the way of the blade. She felt a surge of hope at that—maybe she still did have a chance if he had come back. _

"_Get it!" Rusty cried as Jaws broke free and caught him in the face with a powerful punch. Rusty reeled backward, blood pouring from his nose. _

_Mimi scrambled to her knees, the concrete ripping the skin through the holes in her jeans. She grabbed at the razor, her fingers shaking. Her hand closed around and she gasped as it cut into the tender skin between her fingers. She pushed herself up against the wall and managed to reach one of the windows, letting go. She watched the razor for a moment as it fell, a little glinting spot in the sun. _

_Jaws moved back toward Rusty, who was struggling to breathe, his entire face crimson with blood. Jaws brought his knee up, catching Rusty in the stomach hard. Rusty fell back, coughing, spewing blood onto the floor. Jaws moved in, brought his foot up to finish him, but suddenly Smack started to moan loudly, still unconscious. Jaws jumped and turned, blanching. In that moment, Rusty managed to get to his feet again, stumbling over to where Mimi was standing. She stepped back impulsively, still shaken, then instantly felt guilty. _

"_Bastard," growled Jaws, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand._

"_Jaws," began Rusty, his voice hoarse._

_Just then the sound of sirens cut through the tension of the fight. They watched in horror as two police cars and an ambulance sped to a stop across the street, and four paramedics got out and began walking briskly in the direction of their building, the police close behind. _

"_The back," gasped Rusty, and started to run. _

_Mimi followed him, not stopping to look back, though she could hear the clatter of Jaws' footfalls on the concrete floor. At last they reached the back of the building, diving behind a large dumpster. It wasn't an ideal hiding place, but they couldn't afford to go out on the street in case the police had left an officer behind to watch the cars. _

_Mimi looked out from behind the smelly brown plastic just in time to see two paramedics loading a stretcher into the back of the ambulance. She could barely see Smack's greasy blond hair sticking up over the edge of the sheet. A moment later they closed the doors and drove off. Slowly. No sirens or fanfare. _

"_So?" asked Rusty over her shoulder._

"_He's dead," she whispered, hardly recognizing the sound of her own voice._

_She turned back, looking at the two of them in the light. Jaws was pale, silent. Mimi remembered suddenly that Smack was his brother. A filthy tear rolled down one cheek, washing a pale line in the grime on his face. The fight was gone from his face. _

_Rusty was still covered in blood. It was crusted all over his face, in his hair, on his hands. He looked like something out of a murder mystery._

_Finally, Mimi looked down at her own hands. A long, jagged gash ran down her right arm where the dagger had slashed her. One hand was covered in bloody scratches. _

_It should have hurt. It should have hurt like hell._

_Or at least stung._

_But she only felt the numbness._

_

* * *

_

"Mimi? Mimi, chica, are you all right?"

She comes to awareness with a jarring shock, the room spinning around her and shimmering with things that are only half-real. Angel's voice continues in her ears, but she is downstairs now. Alone.

Taking a wrenching breath, she pulls herself into a sitting positions and is immediately assaulted by needles of pain that threaten to tear apart the little resolve she has left. Her skin is on fire, crawling with little nit-like things that she cannot see. For a moment she scratches like mad, then realizes it is fruitless and gives up.

"Roger?"

Her own voice sounds strange in her ears. It seems to echo off the walls, and suddenly she feels that they are about to come crashing down on her. She is alone.

She is alone, and something is terribly wrong.

* * *

Review please! 


	5. Pacing

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all your support on the last chapter. Sorry this one is shorter, but...well, it was hard to write. You'll see why. I hope I did it justice.

* * *

**Pacing**

"Roger, please wake up." She knows he can't hear, knows she is being ridiculous. She continues to call for him anyway. She attempts to get out of the bed and falls, landing with shooting pains in her knees. The floor is ice. It seeps all the warmth out of her skin, burning it away with startling acidity. Her lungs burn, and she finds that she cannot move any further. "Please wake up, something's…"

Fast, clanking footsteps on the metal stairs just outside the wall make her stop for a moment. It isn't him, can't be him, he can't possibly know. And yet… "Please, Roger. Something's wrong…Please." Ordinarily she would curse herself at the mere thought of such neediness, but now all she can think about is the pain in her lungs. The room is spinning at alarming speed, and the world is obscured by little pinwheels of black. "Please…"

"Mimi!" And then he is there somehow, miraculously. "Look, about what I said before, I'm sorry, I just—_fuck_. Mark!" He falls to his knees beside her, pressing one hand to her forehead.

"Roger—"

"Shh, don't talk."

"Roger, I think something's terribly wrong with me."

"Just…just…" Suddenly Roger jumps to his feet and bolts for the door. "Mark! Call an ambulance!"

* * *

_Mimi ran her palm over Rusty's damp forehead, brushing back his long black bangs. It was barely dawn, not yet light enough to illuminate the room, certainly not late enough for anyone to be awake, but she couldn't tell if he was asleep or unconscious. He hadn't been the same since the fight, withdrawing into himself, no longer bossing the gang like he once had. Jaws, too, was less aggressive. Everyone was visibly shaken by Smack's death, though it was a silent pact not to discuss it. They hadn't gone back to the abandoned building for fear that the police would return. _

_Somehow, they ended up at the deserted house. Mimi felt a small comfort in it, though she knew it was risky being back so close to her house. She never said a word about it to the others. In a way it was her fault that they'd lost their last place. _

_It was cool and dark inside, empty but for an old bed and an older, moldy couch. Though the power and water had long ago been shut off, the house had a feeling of peace trapped inside it. Mimi was sure it had once been inhabited by happy people, regardless of how they had left. She could feel it sometimes, late at night, seeping out of the walls to comfort her. The spirit of the place was decidedly benevolent._

_Rusty groaned and stirred beneath her touch, bringing her back from her thoughts. The cuts from the fight had never fully healed, and he had been sick on and off, until he had finally collapsed from a high fever the night before. Over two months, and he still wasn't recovered._

_Mimi looked up at the sound of the door creaking open, only to see Perox slinking in, dressed in her work clothes—ripped red fishnets, a denim skirt that barely covered her ass, and a shirt that looked like it had been made from a scrap of fabric scavenged out of the trash. Her white-blonde hair was disheveled, and in need of bleaching, brown roots showing like an apple rotten at the core. She had lost even more weight, and her hipbones stood out sharply where her skirt sagged in the front. Mimi knew she hadn't been making much lately, and what she could get went to things other than food._

_"Give it up, whore," muttered Perox as she walked by._

_Mimi glared at her. "Fuck you." Perox was the kind of girl who had to be above everyone else, even when that meant sinking lower. She'd been Rusty's girlfriend before, Mimi had gathered that much, and she wasn't happy about losing him. _

_"Yeah, that's what you do, isn't it?" muttered Perox sourly. "Fuck any random shit you can find."_

_"Like you don't," Mimi shot back._

_Perox narrowed her eyes, tilting her head toward Rusty. "Suure, 'course I do…only…I don't make the mistake of thinking it anything else. You a whore, Mimi. You ain't never gonna be nobody's girlfriend."_

_

* * *

_

"What happened?" asks Mark, when they are standing in the waiting room. He has somehow managed to talk Roger into some amount of calm, but now he cannot suppress his own misgivings any longer.

"I don't know," says Roger. He's pacing around like a caged animal, drawing looks from other people waiting. He has carved a path in the chairs, forward, left, back, right, around and around and around.

"What do you know?" tries Mark again. He doesn't mean to sound confrontational, but it comes out that way. They're all just under so much pressure.

"I'm a bastard," says Roger. For once he's not in the mood to blame anyone else. Only now Mark thinks that this might be even more destructive. Roger continues to pace. Forward, left, back, right.

"What happened?" Mark knows if he repeats it enough times, he'll eventually get it out of Roger.

"I went down to apologize. I told her she was sick this morning. Running a fever. I wanted to take her to the hospital then. She wouldn't listen to me. I just found…" He trails off. Forward, left, back, right. A woman holding a very pale little girl stares blankly at him.

"She's gonna be okay, Roger," says Mark, because there is nothing else to say. "You'll see."

"No she won't," says Roger. Forward, left, back, right. "Nothing will."

* * *

_Mimi just stared, reeling, searching desperately for something to say. Perox sniffed daintily and walked away. Rusty moaned again, louder this time, his eyelids fluttering. Mimi turned back to him, pushing Perox from her mind for the moment._

_"Hey," she said softly, "hey, can you hear me?" The smallest sign of movement from him brought a flood of feeling to her chest. She was nearly disgusted with herself for the response, but she couldn't help it. She found the fear of losing what little family she had keeping her awake at night more and more often lately. _

_"Shit," groaned Rusty. He sat up slowly, coughing. It was a dry, ragged sound, and Mimi barely caught sight of blood on his palm as he pulled his hand away. She put a hand on the small of his back, trying to help, but he flinched away, insisting on getting up and stumbling over to the couch on his own._

_"What?" She followed him anxiously, sitting down next to him. The couch creaked loudly. Mimi caught her breath, hoping that the others wouldn't wake up. They generally slept through everything, but the last thing she wanted was to put on a show for their entertainment. _

_"Nothin'," he muttered roughly, running a hand through his hair. "Just don't know why you're so fuckin' worried."_

_Mimi stared at him, shocked. She had assumed he'd see her concern as a good thing."Because I care!"_

_Rusty looked at her for a moment, raised one dark eyebrow, and laughed harshly. It turned into a dry, rasping cough at the end."No Name, you sure don't catch on fast."_

_"What?" she insisted, Perox's words echoing in her mind._

_"You can't care. Nobody cares on the street. It don't get you nowhere but fucked up. In a big way."_

_

* * *

_

They are still in the waiting room a whole hour later when Maureen and Joanne arrive. Roger is still pacing, though he has fallen completely silent. His downcast cloudy eyes tell Mark that he is no longer aware of his surroundings.

"We got here as fast as we could," says Joanne, roughly shaking Mark's hand. There is nothing soft about her when she is upset. She is all business. It's her best defense.

"Thanks," says Mark.

"I'm so sorry," says Maureen. She starts to cry and flings herself into Mark's arms. He puts one awkward hand on her back, all too aware that Joanne is watching them. The look on her face is a mix between anger and sadness.

"I um…thanks, Maureen," Mark repeats for lack of anything else to say. "I'm sure it'll all be okay in the end." He feels like an idiot immediately, knows that what he has said is completely untrue, but it has become his role. He is no longer Mark the Peace Keeper or Mark the Responsible One. Somehow over the past year, he has become Mark, Teller of Comforting Lies. He gently extracts himself from Maureen's embrace and puts a light hand on her shoulder, giving Joanne an apologetic glance.

"Have you heard anything?" asks Joanne. She has asked him the same question three times now, twice on the phone and now once in person. This is unlike Joanne, the woman with the notepad practically attached to her hands. The only one of them who does not consistently lose things.

"No," says Mark, deciding to let it go. He knows that he will most likely be repeating this information countless times to everyone who is of any acquaintance over the next few days. "They came and took her straight to the ICU but that's all we know."

Joanne nods somberly. "I guess it's to be expected. I mean now that—"

"Don't say that!" Maureen's shout causes several heads to snap around. For a moment Mark is afraid that several uniformed security officers are about to come charging over and escort them out, but nothing happens. Slowly, the others go back to whatever they have been doing.

"Don't say that," repeats Maureen. For a moment Mark thinks there is going to be a fight, but then Maureen starts to cry again, and collapses into Joanne's shoulder. Joanne hugs her back, all the previous minute's tensions forgotten.

"So umm…did you get in touch with Collins?" asks Mark, when Maureen has straightened up again.

Joanne's face falls again. "No. No, I don't know where he is."

* * *

_Mimi stood up, facing him. Her throat was tight, though she wasn't sure why. She hadn't cried in months. She was suddenly very aware of the hardness of the concrete beneath her feet. Her back felt sore in nearly a dozen places. There was no heat anywhere in the abandoned house._

_"I can't help it." She hated that it was the truth, but it was. She'd left so that she could be independent and found herself right back in the grips of another vice. Sometimes it seemed that she simply couldn't survive on her own. She needed something to cling to. She paced across the room and back again, forcing herself to relax. "You do, don't you?"_

_He didn't answer._

_"About me?" Her voice was starting to shake, and she hated herself for it._

_Rusty laughed again, then coughed until he spit bloody phlegm on the floor, gasping to catch his breath. He looked up deliberately, fixing her in the intensity of his dark gaze._

_"Get this straight. Now. I don't care. You don't care. You're hot in the sack. That's it."_

_

* * *

_

The nurse won't stop hovering. Roger is glad of her presence, though he pretends to be annoyed. He doesn't want the others to know how afraid he is of this moment. He is glad that they have not been allowed to come with him. He doesn't think he can convince them of anything at this moment.

Mimi is laid out on the bed, the white sheet pulled all the way up to her chin. Several machines surround her, beeping steadily. Her eyes are closed, but he can see little beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. She looks angelic, he thinks. Suddenly, he wants to put his head through the wall.

"It's bad?" He looks at the nurse, hoping she will contradict him. She is beautiful, he notices, in a soft shy way. She has pretty dark curls that insist on escaping from her ponytail, framing her face. For just a moment, he feels something in the pit of his stomach. He is disgusted with himself for it.

"It's not looking good," the nurse admits.

Roger nods slowly, suddenly feeling that he has to get out. "Will she sleep through the night?"

The nurse gives him an odd look, then nods again. "Oh yeah. And then some."

Roger doesn't bother to answer. He just bolts for the emergency exit. As the cold night air hits his face, he wonders where he will spend the night.

* * *

Review please! 


	6. Ghosts

**_Author's Note: _ **Parts of this were also used in a contest on speedrent. It won third place.

* * *

**Chapter 6--Ghosts**

_"Fuckin' holidays," muttered Rusty as churchbells from the nearby cathedral woke them before noon one morning. The ground was still cold, and the few blades of grass that were struggling up a sickly yellow-green, but the air was warmer than usual, and a pale sun was attempting to burn its way through the haze._

_"Don't they make you happy?" asked Mimi, sitting up and attempting to smile at him. They'd been fighting on and off for nearly a month, but she found strangely that it only motivated her to be more agreeable. Sometimes she wondered if this was what people meant by losing themselves on the street. _

_"'Buncha God bullshit? Hell no." He coughed roughly and stood up, swaying a little unsteadily on his feet. Rusty had started smoking again, claiming that it eased the pain in his lungs though his cough grew only steadily worse. _

_"Where you goin'?" The rest of the ragged group was still asleep; she could see them sprawled out near the far end of the fence._

_Police action had started to pick up with the first major thaw of the year toward the end of March, and by Memorial Day the area was no longer safely inhabitable. The abandoned house was discovered at last; a government crew showed up and posted a large red "Condemned" sticker in the front window. A few days later, a truck filled with construction equipment was brought to the scene and demolition begun without hesitation. _

_They wandered for a long while, from street corner to abandoned car, dodging the increasing neighborhood vigilance and searching for a place to make a semi-permanent dwelling. By the time the coldsnaps stopped, they had wandered all the way to the outskirts of the city, finally settling in the East Village. It wasn't much, but the lot was a good compromise in a group that was already beginning to fragment. A little shelter, enough space to avoid territory wars. _

_"Out," said Rusty noncommittally. He'd never been much for words, but vagueness had become deception lately, though how much any of the others valued honesty, Mimi could never really tell. _

_"Out where? It's early, babe. Come lay down." She was begging and she knew it. More and more, she hated the girl she was becoming. She stretched back out on her stomach, ignoring the shock of the cold ground against her skin. She ran one hand through her hair and raised an eyebrow at him, like she'd learned to do for the men who passed her on the street. "You'll enjoy it."_

_"_Out_ out," repeated Rusty. "Can't fuckin' stand this place."_

_

* * *

_

"Close on Roger," narrates Mark, "who's been sitting on that window sill for days now, with a look on his face which I have become quite accustomed to."

"Fuck you," says Roger, his face turned out to the street. Mark cannot remember the last time they have had a civil conversation. "And get that damn thing out of my face before I throw it off the fire escape." The hard edge to his voice tells Mark he isn't kidding. It hurts, coming from Roger. He's usually the only one who understands.

"There a reason why you haven't been by the hospital yet?" asks Mark, switching off the camera and putting it carefully on top of the book shelf.

"I haven't seen you going there either," retorts Roger, still not turning around.

"She's not my girlfriend," says Mark, though he knows he isn't exactly blameless either. Still, it makes him crazy seeing Roger skulking around the loft instead of facing the reality that Mimi doesn't have much time left.

"_Fuck_ that." Roger climbs off the windowsill with a clunk as his booted feet hit the concrete floor. He turns around and sweeps everything off of the aluminum folding table with an arm. Mark cringes at the sound of glass breaking. Roger lets out a little puff of air, then kicks the table over on top of the mess he has just created. He looks like he might cry.

"Look, Roger…" Mark waits until he looks up. "I just don't want to see you waste what time you have left."

* * *

_"Wake up." _

_"What?" Mimi jumped, surprised by the voice from behind her. She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, but the sun was fully up outside now, and the others were beginning to stir._

_"Said wake up, bitch." It was Perox, smirking that slinky look of hers. "He hates you, whore. You ain't never gonna change that." _

_"Fuck you." Mimi turned and walked away._

_

* * *

_

"I brought presents," says Collins, brandishing a very large shopping bag. He looks thinner than before, and older somehow too. Mimi notices for the first time how much older he seems than the rest of the group, though it's never struck her as anything notable before.

"You're the first," says Mimi, hating the sound of her voice. She tries to sit up, but manages only to dislodge a couple of the pillows so that they fall to the floor. Collins swoops to help, and she smiles weakly. She has only been aware of her surroundings for two days, but in that time no one else has come to visit. Typical Roger, she thinks, terrified of hospitals, angered by the prospect of death. Still, she has a hard time biting back the bitterness.

"Here." Collins rearranges the pillows and helps her lean against them. She smiles as he sits down, thinking that he should be the last person coming to visit her. It isn't fair to him, not after everything he's been through in the past year. Ironic, really. He is the one person she could forgive for not coming, and yet he is the one person who has not disappointed.

"How are you?" asks Mimi, as Collins pulls a chair over from the opposite side of the room and sits in it.

"Can't complain," he says, and she knows that he must want to. "Trying to figure out what I want to…you know, do with myself now. I figure I got a good two, three years still. Might as well not let that go to waste." He sounds every bit as drained as Mimi feels.

"Will you teach again?" The IV line in her forearm itches. She scratches around the edges of the tape, not caring that she is making it burn worse. The pain from the needle in her arm is significantly less than the pain everywhere else. It gives her something to focus on.

"Ah, I dunno. I want something that's…I don't even know." He twists the handles of the shopping bag around, looking at his hands. An uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty, coming from Tom Collins.

"Worthwhile?" asks Mimi. Collins looks up quickly, surprised. He smiles at her, the lines in his face lessening ever so slightly.

"Yes." Collins shakes his head. "You ever think it'd be possible to make a difference? I did once. Then I tried teaching. Learned that you might as well fuck yourself for trying to change the world. It just don't work like that."

Mimi smiles sadly and smoothes out a wrinkle in the white hospital sheets. She's thought about it a lot lately. Thought that there has to be a better way to live than the ones she's tried so far. "Yeah. But hey, kinda late for me now, isn't it?"

They are silent for a moment. Silence is a side effect of sickness, she has discovered over the past few months. The sight of pill bottles and hospital monitors steals breath and seals lips. Lies come along with the package too. And tears.

"You said something about presents?" Mimi gestures to the shopping bag, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

"Right." Collins spreads the contents of the shopping bag on the side of the bed. Several pumpkin spice scented candles, a can of spray glitter, and most of Angel's extensive makeup collection. "She wanted you to have this," says Collins, as Mimi eyes the gaudy eye shadow palette.

"Collins." Her throat feels tight suddenly, and not because of the meds. The memory of Angel lying in a hospital bed identical to this one, with all of the others sitting around in a protective circle, is suddenly too much. "You don't have to do this, you know. I'd understand if you wanted to…stay away."

"Fuck that, Mimi. You're family. There's no excuses there." Collins moves the things over to the bedside table, and lights one of the candles. Instantly, the smell begins to drown out some of the hospital antiseptic scent, though she is sure the nurses will be less than thrilled.

"Thank you," she says quietly. Collins nods, kisses her hand, and starts to get to his feet. "Wait," says Mimi, when he reaches the door.

"Yeah?" Collins turns back, his eyes looking unnaturally large in the odd fluorescent light.

"Have you heard anything from the others? I was just thinking I don't know why Roger's not—"

"I'm sure he's coming, Mimi." Collins' voice is too loud. Too certain. Suddenly Mimi is sure he's not coming at all. Something is very wrong in their little family, and Collins knows it.

"He should be here," she says softly, not bothering to hide the hurt in her voice anymore. Collins nods once more, then turns and walks away very quickly. "He should be here," Mimi repeats. "He's not here and I'm…I'm dying." The candle on her bedside table flickers a bit, as if in agreement. "I'm dying," she says to the candle, trying out the words on her tongue. "I'm fucking dying and he should be here."

* * *

_The church was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. She knew she'd probably get herself killed if she ever admitted it to the rest of the group, but for the moment she couldn't tear her eyes away. All the pretty little girls in white and pink frilly dresses, sitting on the laps of parents and friends. The carving of the angel above the pulpit. _

_She went as close to the door as she dared, barely able to breathe. She wasn't sure why she was afraid of being in a place that claimed to welcome everyone, but deep down she was quite sure that they didn't intend the sign out front to apply to people like her. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, letting herself be lost in the priest's words of comfort and reassurance. She tried over and over to tell herself that they didn't apply to her, but there was strength in something familiar nonetheless. _

_"Miss?" Mimi jumped, realizing that the service had let out. The church now stood empty, save for a few people lingering on the stone steps out front. _

_"What?" She stood straight up with a start. It was the priest, standing over her with a look she couldn't read on his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll go." Without leaving him time to say another word, she turned and fled._

_

* * *

_

"Take a lick," says Maureen, holding out the lollipop she's been nursing for the past half hour. "How many you think it'll take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Roll pop?"

"Maureen…" Joanne sighs, and shakes her head, pushing the lollipop back at Maureen. She knows that silliness is Maureen's defense mechanism, that they've all been more than a little bit stressed lately, but she cannot help getting annoyed. They are in the middle of two very earth-shattering situations, and all Maureen can talk about is her candy. Typical. Just fucking typical. "We need to talk."

"We always need to talk, Pookie." Maureen flips over onto her back on the couch, and holds the lollipop above her mouth, sticking her tongue up to lick it. "You know, eating a lollipop is like peeling an onion."

_"Maureen." _Joanne gives her a look, then snatches the candy out of her hand and puts it on a coaster on the end table. Maureen bounds up and grabs it back, pouting like a small child. Joanne has to bite her lip to keep from blowing up. "Please, Maureen. Please, for five minutes sit up and wipe your mouth and act like a grownup. We need to talk about this. It's important."

"About what?" asks Maureen, obeying with a grudging look. She is capable of being serious, after all. Sometimes. "How we're all falling apart? How in three months we'll all be in different places and only Mark will remember that we ever spent a year together? Oh, yes, Pookie, let's discuss that in detail." Suddenly all traces of mirth are gone, and Maureen is all bitterness.

"That's not what I meant," says Joanne softly. "That's not what I meant at all."

"Your job offer then?" Maureen's voice is quiet now. Utterly uncharacteristic. "Okay, so even if Mimi doesn't…we'll still end up away. All of us. Joanne, why do you really want this job? More money? We're doing fine as it is. Right here. Look what we have. Do you really think there's anything better than this anywhere else?"

"I…" Joanne is about to tell her that she has always dreamed of a job like this. The chance to make a difference. That that is the entire reason she went to Harvard, yet has already delayed three years. That this is the reason she puts up with all the bullshit every day at the office. With the pains of being a black lesbian corporate lawyer. But something makes her choke on her words. Suddenly she sees Collins, weeping over Angel's coffin. Roger pacing in the waiting room. Mark, looking helplessly on, filming it all because he cannot bear to see the world unguarded.

Maureen wraps Joanne in a hug as they both begin to cry.

* * *

"Roger?" Mark's voice echoes off the thin loft walls. The sound of the door sliding shut is like thunder. Roger gets up off the bed and swings his guitar case over one shoulder. He walks quickly out into the main room, feeling a stab of guilt at the sight of the overturned table and the mess on the floor. Mark is attempting to sweep it up with a broom he has apparently brought home from work.

"Hi," he says, as Roger enters the room.

"Hi." Roger puts the guitar case down, and picks up the duffel bag that's waiting for him on the couch. He puts the guitar case over his other shoulder, then turns in a slow circle, surveying the loft. Something about it unsettles him today, though he is sure it's just the guilt in the pit of his stomach.

"What are you doing?" asks Mark, looking up again from his cleaning.

"I'm moving out," says Roger, and pulls the door open.

* * *

_Walking back to the park, trying to catch her breath in the cold, Mimi nearly ran into the man standing on the corner. She'd seen him nearly every day, and had always made a point to steer clear. Even after five months on the street, his kind still scared her. He was a perfect fit to the stereotype, scruffy, dark-glassed, and quietly threatening. He didn't raise a fuss most of the time, but when he did, there was hell to pay. _

_"Oh, my honey." He put a hand on her shoulder as she stumbled. "Looks like you're having an awfully bad morning." The sound of his voice sent a chill down her spine. _

_"I'm fine," she said brusquely, and attempted to pull out of his grasp. His hand tightened._

_"Now, now. Don't lie to me. I can help." He smiled, revealing a gleaming gold tooth. Like something out of a bad movie, she thought. Only this was real. Still smiling, he pressed a small packet of something into her hand, then let go. "First time's on me."_

_

* * *

_

Walking outside the hospital, Collins thinks he sees a ghost. Not the one he's been watching in his dreams night after night, but a new vision come to haunt him. Then he gets a few feet closer, and realizes that he isn't really seeing things at all.

Somehow, he thinks that something inside of him has finally been crushed by the sight of Roger Davis, bags packed, sitting on a bench with a needle in his hand.

* * *

Review please! 


	7. Eyes Open

_**Author's Note: **I come bearing a new chapter, and a new penname. I figured that after five years of the same, it was time for a bit of a change. Here's hoping you all still recognize me. I know there are a lot of memories associated with my old name, but I think it's time that some of those get left behind. I feel like my writing has changed drastically over the past year, so maybe it's time that my identity does too. _

_All of that said, I should also share the fact that I am no longer planning on making this fic as epically long as I originally was. It will still have a decent plot, and I highly doubt any of you will miss any of it. The reasoning behind this is that I have realized I need to make it a manageable length in order to keep up the quality. That and I decided to cut as much unnecessary filler as possible. I'm trying to do that in a lot of things recently. _

_This chapter is un-betaed. I blame any egregious errors entirely on a very bad headcold._

* * *

**Chapter 7: Eyes Open**

_The air was positively acrid with the smell of smoke. There had been a time when nights like this felt festive, but now all she knew was the pain in her lungs brought on by the intense humidity and pollution. Mimi lay on her back in the scraggly summer grass, her arms spread on either side of her snow-angel-like, and stared up at the sky. _

_"Ready? Damn, this sucker's gonna be big!" Rusty took the mostly-extinguished cigarette stub from between his lips and blew out a weak mouthful of smoke. He coughed a bit and grinned, revealing a mouthful of rapidly yellowing teeth._

_Mimi averted her gaze, feeling a mix of nausea and longing at the sight of him. He'd barely said a word to her since their last fight, but he had yet to kick her out of the gang. She knew she was on the edge, in danger of being on her own again, and so she kept her mouth shut. Sometimes when she looked at him now, she seemed to see the deadness lurking just behind his dark eyes. He'd become so thin his face looked like a skull in the moonlight very late at night. The sight of it haunted her in her dreams, those nights when she did manage to sleep. _

_"Biggest fuckin' firework ever!" yelled Jack, the new kid, as the can they'd filled with gunpowder went skyward with a bang. _

_"Happy goddamn independence day," muttered Perox, her slim face appearing directly over Mimi's, making her jump a little. "Where the hell are those aliens?"_

* * *

"Mark!" The pounding wakes Mark from his first sleep in three days, sending him catapulting off the couch and onto the floor with a painful thud. "Open the fucking door!"

He finds his glasses on the table with one hand, and puts them on, raking the other through his short blond hair until it sticks up all over his head in spikes. He realizes he is sore as he gets to his feet, muscles cramped from sleeping on the couch and in chairs at the hospital. When he makes it to the door at last, it takes a conscious effort to slide it open. He has always known it is heavy, but it seems particularly so today.

"Mark!" Maureen's fist is raised mid-knock when the door reveals her, and for a moment Mark feels a crazed laugh forming in the pit of his stomach. He swallows it down, figuring showing Maureen just how upset he is probably isn't a very good idea.

"What?" snaps Mark, too loudly.

"Oh, I think you know, Marky. Or at least I've heard as much." Maureen's face is set in a look of hard determination that makes Mark's stomach tighten even more than it already is. She very seldom gets this look. Only when she's very, very upset. And prepared to do something about it that, for once, involves honest emotion instead of theatrics.

"Maureen, be straight with me. I can't deal with this right now." Mark watches as she stalks over to the couch and climbs up on it, her heels making little dents in the worn green fabric. Maybe she isn't above theatrics today after all.

"That is what this is about, isn't it, Marky? People being straight with one another. You had to know I'd find out eventually." She leans her hands on Mark's shoulders as he comes to stand in front of the couch. He pulls away roughly.

"What, Maureen?"

"Benny, Mark. Benny is going to take the lot again. He's going to evict all of the homeless and go ahead again just like he did before. And you are going to let him do it." She sounds like she might be ready to cry. Mark has to force himself to breathe.

"Yes, Maureen. I know. Did he tell you the rest of the bargain?" Maureen shakes her head, and Mark plows ahead. "The minute we stick our noses in, he buys this building again too. Puts us out. I can't do that Maureen, not now."

"So you're willing to let the homeless be evicted instead? When you have options?" Her gray eyes flash coldly.

"Yes, Maureen!" Mark shouts, snapping at last. "Yes, I am. Because I don't know what else to do right now. Roger's gone, Maureen. I haven't heard from him in four days. Collins said he saw him using near the hospital last week. I just hope to god that Mimi doesn't find out, because…" He breaks off, realizing just how crazy he sounds. "I think you should go now."

Maureen steps down off the couch, waving her arms like a tight-rope walker. She gets all the way to the door before she turns back.

"I'm sorry, Mark. I guess I've mistaken you for someone who cares."

* * *

_"I hate that movie," groaned Mimi, rolling over onto her side and grimacing as a sharp pain ripped through her stomach. _

_"Yeah? How come?" Perox sat on the grass beside Mimi, suddenly in one of her friendly moods. Mimi regarded her suspiciously; she always had to wonder why when Perox decided to drop the enemy act. _

_"I dunno. Who'd want the world to get destroyed like that?" Mimi watched as another tin can shot up in the air, almost above their heads. She cringed a little at the sight of it, not wanting to give her fear away. That was always unhealthy, she'd learned, particularly when you lived on the street._

_"Think it'd do the fucking world good," said Perox, uncharacteristically articulate. Mimi looked closer at her, and realized suddenly just how pale and thin she'd gotten. "Get me outta this shit hole, anyway."_

_"What happened?" asked Mimi at last, deciding to take a chance on honesty._

_"Ran outta money yesterday," said Perox distantly. She had one hand subconsciously splayed over her bare stomach, and Mimi suddenly realized how all the pieces fell together. "Not gonna be getting' anymore of that soon, either. Call me outta commission." _

_"What'll you do?" _

_Perox laughed bitterly. "Not your problem, bitch."_

* * *

"Roger!"

He finds the hardness of the curb for the third time in as many days, a cigarette cradled between two fingers, burning down redly.

"Roger, this has got to stop, man!"

When he looks up, he sees a memory walking toward him. Collins, book in one hand, jaw set in hard determination. It takes him back two years, to a time just after April. To a bad trip and a friend back to visit at just the right time.

"What do you want?" Roger's voice is hard, and his eyes burn as he looks up at the other man, fighting against the hope that Collins is here to save him again. He tells himself he would rather crash and burn this time than be saved again. This time there is nothing to be saved for. Nothing but more pain.

"Roger, give this up and go home. Mark's worried." Collins sits beside him on the curb.

"Mark's not my fucking mother." Roger takes a drag from his cigarette and fumbles in a pocket for the packet of smack he knows is there. He doesn't want it, really, but it feels better to make the others angry than sad.

Collins chuckles sadly. "I'd sure as hell hope not. Come on, man, this isn't you." Collins puts a hand on Roger's shoulder. He shrugs it off, hard. "Look. I know it's hard. Shit, I know better than anyone. But trust me. This isn't going to fix anything. Go see her, Roger. You don't wanna end up hating yourself."

"Already fucking do," says Roger. "Piss off, man."

Collins grabs Roger's arm, attempts to pull him to his feet. Something snaps inside Roger, and in a flash Collins is on the ground, bleeding from a nasty-looking gash on his temple. Roger just stands there, staring for a moment. He has no idea where the sudden burst of energy has come from; he's spent the past few days in a fit of numbness, barely able to bring himself to eat or breathe. Now he's just done the unthinkable, and he has no idea how.

"What the hell's going on here?" A man in a business suit is staring, eyes wide as saucers, cell phone in hand, ready to dial up the police as soon as he manages to snap out of his shocked trance.

Roger takes one more look at Collins lying on the pavement, then turns and runs, bile burning in the back of his throat.

* * *

_Suddenly the grass felt like a thousand needles, prickling into Mimi's back. She groaned and rolled onto her side as yet another burned-out tin can came to rest a few feet away from her. It was comfortable for a moment, but then a sharp pain in her stomach sent her rolling over yet again, cursing under her breath. _

_When it had been clear that there was no baby, she'd breathed a sigh of relief. But the symptoms hadn't stopped. At first she'd assumed that the stomach pains were from hunger, from bad water, from nerves. But the more she thought about it, she realized that they hadn't always been there. It had only been in the past year, since her father had really gone over the edge with his drinking._

_Since he'd started coming to her at night._

_She swallowed hard at the thought, and tried ended up on her back again, trying to focus her gaze on the night sky. It was far too smoky to see either stars or moon, but she had the distinct feeling that it was a clear night, way, way up there. _

_Another can went up in the air with a bang, trailing sparks through her field of vision. For just a moment, Mimi let herself pretend it was a shooting star. _

_Wishing wasn't something she'd done much of lately._

* * *

"Mark?"

Mark stares at the answering machine from his seat on the couch. He makes no move to pick up the phone.

"Mark, it's Collins. Come on, man, pick up."

Mark switches off the camera in his hands and continues to stare at the little black box that's talking to him. The sight of it has put a thrill of fear in his stomach every time the light has flashed since Christmas. Somehow he's come to view it as the bearer of all the bad news in their lives. He lets it be the first one to hear because he can no longer bear that burden.

"Look, we need to talk. I think Roger's lost it."

Slowly, Mark gets to his feet and walks toward the machine. He knows this is a message which requires urgent attention. If Collins has found Roger, they need to get him back to the loft as quickly as possible. He's seen Roger in breakdown mode before, and now it's getting dark out.

For a moment, Mark's fingers hover over the receiver as Collins continues to talk. He no longer hears the words, only the quiet desperation behind them and the beating of his own heart. He feels as though he might burst if he is forced to face one more emotion today.

Almost of its own accord, Mark's index finger reaches out and stabs the 'off' button on the answering machine.

* * *

Mimi wakes from the fever dream to the sound of shuffling feet. The sound of guilt, she might have called it once, but she no longer has the energy to look at the world the way she's always prided herself on doing. For a moment she is disoriented, the smell of gun powder and alcohol seeming to linger in her nostrils. She shakes it off and sits up, telling herself that the nightmares are just the product of too many painkillers.

Then the visitor opens his mouth, and she feels as though she's still asleep. Still in the dream.

"Get the hell out of my room." For a moment she can't believe she's really said the words, they've come so suddenly. Somehow, in three days, rationality has turned to sadness, which has in turn given way to rage. There is no question in her mind anymore. This is nothing short of abandonment and betrayal.

"Thought you'd be happy to see me." Roger smiles nastily, and she realizes instantly that he's high.

"You have ten seconds before I push that call button, you bastard." Worse than his absence is the gall of his standing before her like this, in direct violation of everything they've ever promised each other.

"I'll go. I just wanted to tell you I moved out." His voice is flat now, and the circles beneath his eyes are so deep he looks like a zombie from a bad tv movie.

"Damn you, Roger. You walk out on me like this and I never want to see you again." She thinks that it is already true, but the emotional war going on inside her head makes her feel in danger of splitting down the middle.

"I can't do this, Mimi. I just can't." He shrugs. "We both know it's for the best."

"Look me in the eye and say that again." It is taking all the strength she has left just to hold onto some shred of rationality.

Roger takes one step closer, leaning over the side of the bed. His eyes are huge in the low light, and for a moment she wonders whether she should be afraid.

"I love you," whispers Roger.

Mimi's hand connects with the side of his face before she's even realized she's moved it. Roger reels backward, clutching one hand to his cheek and looking as though she's the one who's been entirely disloyal here. She feels tears forming in the back of her throat, curses herself for them. She's always had a talent for finding the relationships that will hurt her the most.

"Roger, I'm going to close my eyes. I'm going to close my eyes and scream. When I'm out of breath, you'd better be gone."

"You can't—you wouldn't—"

The tears feel like acid behind her closed eyelids, and the sound tears from her throat like a thousand knives being dragged over her skin. Her lungs feel like they just might explode, but she thinks that if they do maybe it will finally ease the pressure there. Stars bloom on the back of her eyelids and still she holds on, forcing out every last ounce of voice and energy. For a second she is sure she is going to die like this. Then she feels the pillows behind her head, and air flooding back into her lungs. She waits a moment longer, then pushes gritty eyes open.

Alone.

* * *

Review please!


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